Poetry O' Plenty
Spirit As Landscape by Tommy Wright, Jr.
Emotional Champagne by Anthony Simeone
to ezra pund on his 112th Birthday by Andrea Chrisman
Untitled by Bruce Kramer
Beauty Is Skin Deep With Me by Bruce Kramer

Prose Pieces Pour Poo-Poo
Prose works by Bertram Redgrave and Matthew Weatherbee

by swalker@pop.tiac.net

A clam sings in Brooklyn
A clam sings alone
A clam sings in Brooklyn
Someone calls him on the phone
A frog reads in Tulsa
A frog reads alone
A frog reads in Tulsa
Then calls a clam up on the phone

Spirit as Landscape

by Tommy Wright Jr.

he saw stars in the ash bowla sky dreaming of itself into grey,
trickling light of heaventhat patch of earth where colors grew
& knew of little else,having a name
soon held by a memoryno longer voiced;
terrain of a history,
trickling light of heavenyet the texture of an eye, now course, sunless,
illuminated passage,is remembered through the long months;
seen above the bough
an end to lunar evolution,the stillness, the punishment of leaves
a naked tree bowing,& no horizon imminent...
soldier of winters,
seen above the boughhours evolving into days, days, birthing weeks
angels and discordance& if the land was colder
them pressing onwardit was more real,
expiation into fractions,
this the soul of the landthough in this he found no relevance,
a form of pain on whitenot with the absence of communion,
pure & thus arrogant,with the absence of what is warm.
angels and discordance
fled to the dream husk& those angels sigh, that forest motions:
& he alone with the earththis is the song of the night,
he with the suffering land,it reminds him of what is had no more.
what is felt before hope
stronger than the imagined& when daybreak occurs
& he alone with the earthits splendor obscured,
a form of pain on white
extended his arms to the dawn tipa sky dreaming itself into rain,
became the shudder that moved that moved through the forest
a thousand waking birds,raining to drown,
their hunger aimed toward heaven.drowning to feel.

Emotional Champagne

by Anthony Simeone

I can't see your eyes again.
Let me put the knife down
and hold you.
The pretty pictures can wait.
Sit down, sit down.
I know you
love me...
Adore me...
Be angry at me, I beg you.
Oh please blink, and make it rain
so I can see your eyes again.
Distilled passion in a tear,
so many caught in my bottle.
Let's drink it all,
finally finish it.
Allow intoxication by sorrow
one more time before we
break the bottle at last,
shatter our world open tonight.
Smash it, Smash it!
Start to make a life again.
Dreams can trick you
into dancing all night,
but we know our heads will hurt tomorrow.
Oh, to make my fantasies serve me again...
NO! I don't touch the stuff anymore.
They left me with the truth,
what a bitter brew.
Here, take a sip, save some for me!
AH! A very subtle blend of you and me.
I'm sober now.

to ezra pound on his 112 birthday
march 22, 1997
by andrea chrisman

your coffee-stained villainy
haunts the trunk of my Honda.
your strangle hold crushes vocal chords
as consciousness breathes the mist of creativity
through plastic coffee-stirrers:
rigor mortis corpse concepts
wrapped in jeweled levidity.

your isolationist diatribe sent
poor Mister J. Alfred Prufrock
(the boy nobody loved)
madly singing
cowering among empty trashcan tides
wishing he had mingled more
with Kirk's sea-green girls
in the ocean spray.

the rising waves cover reminders of you
with salt sticky nostalgia.
it is time for funerals:
a freshly planted grave awaits;
roots are boring through coffin-calculated images
of the elite.

you should commend me:
i trudge clumsily through your ogre tracks
in a world teaching economy of spirit.
i walk barefoot into the galleries
tracking mud-slung theories on my soles
singing quietly in the shadows
while grumbling under cheap wine breath
"make it new."

come, we shall walk together-
the babbling fool and the pseudo-intellectual.
plodding through poetry,
we can sing of worlds gone perfect
and shatter them with a waiver of the pen.

by Bruce Kramer

you want her
walking by
canvas to paint your eyes over
black high heels
long brown hair
not much else in between
(except for the navel ring)
disco ball lights lasering through the thick booming dance music
you sit and smoke and stare and fantasize
damn it
if you only had another $1
having spent the last one on the red head
with the tattoo of the sun on her back near her ass
few of the other slobs
(you're not one of them of course)
clapping as the new one climbs
17? 18 at the most with her black boots and too much makeup
(you'd do her anyway)
on stage
hugging that pole
writhing on the floor as if the music is her lover
through smoke and cheers
she's smiling at you
damn it
if you only had another $1
to put in your mouth
to put between her breasts
she must really like you
she isn't the worth the $5 in your pocket though
none of these whores are
you want her
maybe give her the 71
--69 with 2 fingers up her ass--
(oh you are quite witty)
alas her mouth is your hand after an erection filled drive home
and you fuck her
and fuck her
and fuck her
Beauty Is Skin Deep With Me
by Bruce Kramer

beauty is skin deep with me
peel back my chromatic exoskeleton
and watch the liquid fire escape

take the shades off the windows to my soul
and see my high viscosity thoughts
clinging to my heart
drowning it

look into my pools of green
and know that I will break you
that I am out of control

look out

someone let my mind out
it's barreling down the road at you
singing its screech
burning across my blackness

broken glass, twisted metal, rusted pain
the painful rust of my mind

my soul wants out too
it's digesting me from the inside
ripping at my entrails to get out

it longs to dance its way out of my mouth
in the form of thick carmel words

feel the explosion rip my minds container
my ultra violet heart
the cause of my cancer filled thoughts

get out of my way

Prose Pieces Pour Poo-Poo
The American Nightmare by Tony Chuckles
by Bertram Redgrave

She's a dog!

Damn that Bogart, he said she was a real looker, long blond hair, deep brown eyes and a great sense of humor, but for christ sakes she's a dog. No getting around it and he's stuck. She has a great personality Bogart had said, damn why didn't he listen to his own gut, never date someone with a great personality, It's the warning signal every time.

Bogart said she was a neighbor he knew who was lonely, her steady had been killed by a car some months before and she was slowly putting her life back together. Real trouble he had thought, but Bogart had been so insistent, please, I like her, Bogart said, she needs someone new, and you know me I've got more females on my hands than I can handle now... yeah, Bogart the big seducer, so he had said ok, why not, maybe this one time would be different so Bogart had arranged their date, she will be waiting on the corner of 2nd and Morgan, and, oh yes, she would be wearing a choker, like the one Pat Boone wore to the music awards...wow, how could you resist that...just a look see...what's to lose...

Well he was no coward and by damn he had said he would meet her so ... waiting for a gap in the light afternoon traffic he crossed the street toward her.

She must have had a good description of him from Bogart for as soon as he reached the corner she spotted him. Damn, no way to duck out now.

She is playing it coy though, making him come up and introduce himself.

She is so nonchalant. Well, here goes...


Ten minutes later and two blocks away he sat on the lowest limb of the old Sycamore tree in the school yard. Casually he lifted his paw to lick his fur. Below him her paws braced on the trunk of the tree Brenda let go with another crescendo of barking. Damn he thought, Bogart was right, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

The American Nightmare
(or Going Postal)
by Tony Chuckles
(AKA Disgruntled guy with the best damn psuedonym since Mr. T)

Ahhhh, the paradise of suburbia, that community of strangers striving for utopia! All the stupid people of this equally stupid world want a piece of the American pie. Things are so dreamy here, basking in the tattered shade of the good old stars and stripes (or should I say "scars and gripes"?). Yeah, everybody and their friggin' family doctor wants to to wake up in a white picket prison in a quiet (i.e. boring) little town. Who wouldn't want to get chained into their own genuine American daily routine? Shit, they last for your entire life! Now that's the high life, baby! To have your dreams slowly strangled as the years pass (there's a lot to be said for the positive benefits of a painful and lingering death as you waste away to nothing). You get to wake up early every morning for 30 or 40 years to go to work for a boss that hates your guts. You kiss the old spouse goodbye before leaving the house you'll be paying for for the next three decades. (Note to Women: notice I said "spouse"...all that hard work at getting equal rights has paid off! Now you get to go join in all the fun that used to only be for men. The stress and subequent heart attacks you've all been missing out on can now be yours too! How glamorous!). And don't forget the car with about 25 more payments on it and a failing engine. Then you sit behind an itty-bitty desk in an even smaller office during the proverbial nine to five shift. The boss might even learn your name someday, Mr. or Mrs. Employee, but only if you are industrious (and more importantly, lucky). After all, someone has to keep the country alive and running smoothly. Wouldn't want our system of government or economy to seem unappealing, because no one would buy it anymore. Yes, the twins of democracy and capitalism skip hand-in-hand merrily over the backs of the happy tax payers! That's the American Way, isn't it? But let's not forget all the happiness on the homefront! Imagine the joy of watching you're 2.35 kids as they grow, the small town ennui draining them of imagination and creativity. Yep, eventually they'll all have a bunch of illegitimate kids and become gas station attendants. My fellow Suburbians, how great it is to be an American dreamer (because in our country, the only sure way to see yourself content is while you are asleep or under the influence of some drug, legal or otherwise). Yes, nothing compares to the indescribable bliss of the paycheck. You clutch the piece of paper that magically turns into cash when you go to one of those money temples. How conveinient! All you have to do is give it to one of those wizards behind the glass windows and ALAKAZAM! You've got a small pile of green that MIGHT feed and clothe and shelter you and yours for another week. Then it's off to the beautiful doldrums and dead silence of suburbia. There is not one sound there to disturb you. No children playing or neighbors chatting under the setting sun to make one noise. Just nice, empty streets and lawns (and you thought people only locked themselves in their homes at night during the Dark Ages!). At times like this (meaning every night) you think about the future! Ah, the future... a time when you can finally die...er...rest and leave your children their inheritance: all of the debts, impossible to pay back in one lifetime, that you cherished during your life! What a wonder ful heirloom. There is no better way to say a posthumous "I Love You"! With that thought you walk into that peaceful home. And everyone will wonder for a while why you rocked your wife and kids and yourself to sleep that night with a shotgun...what, weren't you happy?!

Volume 2 Issue 3
in which it is learned that cloning is not so nice....except for my 20 bretherin
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